\u00c3\u00acYou don\u00c3\u00adt want to give them all to me.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acSure, I don\u00c3\u00adt need them.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acDolly, I\u00c3\u00add love to have these three.\u00c3\u00ae I held them up so she could see which ones, \u00c3\u00acbut I can\u00c3\u00adt take them all. They\u00c3\u00adll get lost in my attic and no one will see them.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acNo one sees them here, either.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
After posting Smitty’s illustration<\/a> of Matt climbing the ladder, I tried to remember the exact date he died. Not out of morbid curiosity, but to help me determine how old Matt was. So I asked Dolly,<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acDolly, when did Smitty die?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acSeven years ago?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acSeven…no, Dolly, it was longer ago than that. It must have been eleven, \u00c3\u00acIt wasn\u00c3\u00adt that long ago, was it.?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acDolly, you don\u00c3\u00adt know when Smitty died?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n Kind of a cruel question, I realized too late, but I\u00c3\u00adm perhaps too accustomed to my mother\u00c3\u00ads impeccable memory. Besides, I thought widows marked their lives by the passing of their husbands\u00c3\u00ad.<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acNo, honest and truly, I don\u00c3\u00adt.\u00c3\u00ae Dolly uses \u00c3\u00achonest and truly ,\u00c3\u00ae as often as Flo, \u00c3\u00acOh, dear God.\u00c3\u00ae Dolly stood up and walked upstairs, perhaps to the same room she keeps the story boards, and returned with Smitty\u00c3\u00ads newspaper obit, sealed in plastic.<\/p>\n Dolly handed it to me and said, \u00c3\u00acYou read it, I don\u00c3\u00adt have my glasses.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n July 3rd, 1993<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acTen years ago, Dolly.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acIt was that long ago?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n On my last day in the wetlands, after which I could return to wearing colors that didn\u00c3\u00adt match the marsh grasses, I was again taking a short cut through Dolly\u00c3\u00ads yard when she came out of her house to ask:<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acMichael, I might be going to Pennsylvania, can you watch my basement? I don\u00c3\u00adt like to go that far, but I should see my granddaughter.\u00c3\u00ae She meant great granddaughter.<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acSure, you mean your sump pump.\u00c3\u00ae Dolly keeps close track of the water in her sump pump hole, no matter how often I tell her the pump will do its job.<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acNo, the basement.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acSure, when are you going?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acThe end of the month. Or next month. I hate going that far, six hours on the plane.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acPennsylvania?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acPhoenix. It wasn\u00c3\u00adt so bad when they lived in Pennsylvania. And Michael, you know I do think about Smitty.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n I didn\u00c3\u00adt have time to apologize, or tell her I wasn\u00c3\u00adt suggesting that she didn\u00c3\u00adt think about her husband.<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acSometimes, when I\u00c3\u00adm falling asleep in front of the TV, I\u00c3\u00adll call out, \u00c3\u00abSmitty, tell those men to go home!\u00c3\u00ad \u00c3\u00ac<\/p>\n Maybe I keep Dolly on her toes, but she does the same for me. I didn\u00c3\u00adt want to sound like I didn\u00c3\u00adt know what she was talking about, so I answered, \u00c3\u00acLike his card playing friends were staying too late.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n Dolly looked at me quizzically. \u00c3\u00acNo, you know,\u00c3\u00ae and she put her fingers to lips, feeling the bump her doctor told her not to worry about, “I\u00c3\u00adll be falling asleep and shout, ‘Smitty, tell those men to go home. ‘ \u00c3\u00ae <\/p>\n Diane and I were talking about Dolly, and she was wondering why I would expect her to remember when Smitty died. I again said, because I thought that would become some kind of milestone. Women would count the years their spouse had been gone. I told her Ms Cass didn\u00c3\u00adt know how long she had been married before her husband had died. In the hall, after class, she had said \u00c3\u00acForty-seven, or forty-four.\u00c3\u00ae Then she began to do the addition from the wedding date.<\/p>\n Diane – \u00c3\u00acHow long have we been married?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n Me – \u00c3\u00acHow long? That\u00c3\u00ads not the point, I\u00c3\u00adm a guy.\u00c3\u00ae Flustered, I continued, \u00c3\u00acBut, I could figure it out. We were married in 1983, so that\u00c3\u00ads twenty years. Look, I don\u00c3\u00adt know why I assume women keep track of these things, I just know they do, and when I hear otherwise, it confounds me.\u00c3\u00ae I continued to blab on, and Diane sat patiently in the cane chair in front of our sliding kitchen doors, until finally she interrupted,<\/p>\n \u00c3\u00acWe weren\u00c3\u00adt married in 1983.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n \n \u00c3\u00acMichael, I need to show you something.\u00c3\u00ae I was cutting through the yard of my elderly neighbor, Dolly, on my way to the protected wetlands project, and listening to her slapping her hands together, shouting, \u00c3\u00acPumpkin, Pumpkin, here Pumpkin.\u00c3\u00ae The … Continue reading
\nmaybe twelve.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
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\n![\"storyboard_sm.jpg\"](\"https:\/\/mainecourse.com\/mt\/archives\/images\/storyboard_sm.jpg\")
\nView larger image<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"